Did you snore in the sleepy den
Where nobody comes and nobody goes
Ages, for two long hundred years
That you’re at home in your Caliban cave?
Or he must have played nine-pins with mountain ghosts
His dog was gone long ago and dead his wife
And back he comes to frighten his one-time Ithaca.
Miranda, we’ve art, our art of our times
We’ve life, our life of our own times
And we can sit here under the tree
And play a game of chess breathing in cold air
While the wind is blowing in from beyond the hills.